Total pages in book: 37
Estimated words: 34190 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 171(@200wpm)___ 137(@250wpm)___ 114(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 34190 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 171(@200wpm)___ 137(@250wpm)___ 114(@300wpm)
“Good morning,” I manage to croak out past the hot cowboy-sized lump in my throat. “I’m Reine Rockwell, Thunderbolt’s owner.”
He laughs, and it’s a deep, rich sound that makes even Thunderbolt flick his ears in approval.
“I’m Cole, Thunderbolt’s prospective buyer,” he says, sticking out a hand. His grip is warm and firm, and I swear electricity flows from the spot our palms are touching—right down the center of my body and straight to my clit.
“Nice to meet you, Cole.” I think back to the list of attendees, trying to figure out his last name, but I don’t remember seeing “Cole” on the list.
“Mr. Carrington. I'm glad you could make it to our auction.” My grandmother walks up, answering my silent question. Carrington? Oh my God. My hot cowboy is a Carrington? Those Carringtons? The ones who live in Silver Spoon Falls, Texas? My heart drops as I’m hit with the realization that the man I’ve been dreaming about is way out of my league.
I try to swallow, but my mouth is dry as the Arizona desert. Of course he’s a Carrington. Not just any hot cowboy, but Cole fucking Carrington. The ranching equivalent of a supermodel billionaire prince. If I had a dollar for every time someone in the ranching world dropped the Carrington name like it was sprinkled in gold, we wouldn’t be desperate to sell Thunderbolt in the first place.
Cole’s hand still covers mine, warm and just the right amount of rough, and I can’t stop thinking about what those fingers would feel like gripping my hips.
“I’m happy to be here, Mrs. Rockwell.” He glances over at Grams and turns on the billion-dollar charm. “But Mr. Carrington is my father. Please, call me Cole.” He watches me, gaze steady, and that lazy smile of his gets even cockier like he knows exactly what he’s doing to my brain chemistry. Oh, God. No woman alive stands a chance against him.
“You can call me Louise.” I’ve never heard my grandmother gush like that. “My granddaughter is here if you need anything at all.” Good God, Grams. Make me sound desperate.
I want to die on the spot, but I just smile like this isn’t the most mortifying moment of my life. “Happy to help,” I manage, even though my voice comes out weird and breathless. All I can think about is Cole’s hand still wrapped around mine, warm and huge and rough in a way that makes my knees quake, and holy hell, I want to feel those hands everywhere.
Cole lets go of my hand so slowly, I swear it’s on purpose, his thumb dragging across my palm. I almost moan. Why is that allowed?
“I’ll let her know if I need…” Cole pauses and winks at me, “Aanything.” I nearly combust on the spot.
CHAPTER FOUR
COLE
It takes every ounce of discipline I’ve got to let go of Reine’s hand. My palm tingles where her skin touched mine, like she’s burned her name into my lifeline. If I had my way, I’d never let go at all, but there’s an audience, and I’m supposed to be here for work, not to get caught drooling over the seller in front of her grandma and a ton of cattlemen looking for a good deal.
Her eyes stick on me, wide and dark, just shy of panicking. She wants me. I want her. There’s a magnetic pull in the air between us, strong enough to flip the Earth’s axis.
I could milk this tension all day, but the old lady’s eyes are as sharp as flint. “Enjoy the auction, Cole,” Louise says, like she’s already plotting how to kill me in my sleep if I break her granddaughter’s heart.
I grin and tip my hat, “Yes, ma’am,” because nothing short-circuits a grandmother’s kill switch like Southern manners. I watch as she leads her granddaughter away, already planning my next move.
By the time I make it to the auction floor, Reine’s already seated, third row from the front, flanked by her grandmother and some guy in a suit. She doesn’t look at me. Not directly. But her eyes keep darting sideways, like she’s drawn to me.
The auctioneer is a walking cliché in a bolo tie and shiny boots. The room hums with the anxious energy of people about to spend or lose a shit-ton of money. I settle into a chair with a clear view of Reine, the perfect vantage to study every twitch of her mouth and the way she rolls her pen between her fingers when she’s nervous.
I know I’m supposed to be evaluating the competition and concentrating on my strategy, but I can’t help cataloguing everything about her instead. The way her hair keeps escaping the elastic, wild and stubborn. How she tends to nibble on her bottom lip. The small, furious lines etched in her forehead when her grandmother whispers something in her ear.